Thursday, August 25, 2011

There Was A Young Man From Peru...

There Was A Young Man From Peru
by Marcel DeClercq

There was a young man from Peru
Who had nothing whatever to do
So he flew in the garret
And buggered the parrot
And sent the result to the zoo.

Winner of the Peruvian Golden Potty Award For Outstanding Fripperology, There Was A Young Man From Peru was perceived in desperation and became an instant hit with disaffected yoot worldwide, spawning thousands of copycat verses too lood to mention.  All proceeds are donated to the Save The Parrot From Self-Immolation Fund.  To donate, all you have to do is download the following book...

Arf, arf!

Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Sherlock writes:
It was a Monday morning, after the night before the night before that.  Watson was in good form, as usual, having sat too close to the fire and burned his backside once more. That man gets through more panties than a hoor in Limehouse.  Anyhoo, I was plagued by a recurring dream about digging holes.  Let them dig holes, Hudders said. But what was the question? I really hadn't the foggiest.  And then some street urchin would be given a spade and told to dig, deeper and deeper and deeper until the poor creature exploded, along with the hole and a trillion grains of earth would pelt the nearest robin, which in turn exploded with a tweet, but not before a deafening trill was unleashed over Baker Street.  And from the shadows emerged Moriarty in black bra and polo shorts.  He told me to dig a hole and so I did, the grimiest, slimiest, squidgiest hole anyone ever did dig, and I too exploded into a trillion zillion atoms which hurtled into a universe no larger than one of Toby's prize winning turds and I thought to myself... wake up, you're on fire!  And sure enough, smoke and flames were billowing from my nether regions and the stench of burnt tobacco and matches hung in the air.  The alarm was raised.  Watson and Hudders threw themselves at my door but budge it would not.  Not to put too fine a point on it, I thought I was toast.  I looked on in terror as the flames engulfed my pubic hair.  "Not my Freddy!" I yelled.  "Anything but my Freddy!"  And at the very moment when Freddy seemed all but lost, Watson and Hudders burst in with buckets of water which quickly doused the flames and Freddy was saved!  Singed but not stirred, he lived to rise another day.  I was mightily relieved, Watson was ecstatic, Hudders was pensive.  "Good grief, Holmes," said Watson, "that was a close one for Freddy, what, what, what!"  "Indeed it was, Watters," said I.  "'I think you'll find, Mr Holmes," said Hudders, "that my first aid training is going to come in very handy here."  Was it a dream?  Was it a fantasy?  Was it elementary?  I shall never know, but now when Hudders brings me my Horlicks afore slumbers, she winks at me ever so gently and says, "Let them dig holes." 

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Thursday, August 11, 2011


It was a cold, autumnal Sunday morning. Holmes sat exasperated. Boredom was his want. The doorbell rang and Hudders escorted in a most ungainly gentlemen who lilted to one side. Holmes immediately pricked up his ears and gestured to the poor fellow to sit down. The gent politely declined, preferring to stand. When Holmes enquired why, he dropped his trousers, turned round and afforded us a most unsavoury sight of his bottom, twisted beyond all anatomical recognition. The poor chap appeared to have two rectums, what, what, what, and festering spots galore. Holmes reacted in a frightfully unhelpful fashion by demanding the man leave forthwith. Several scones and cups of tea later, Holmes and I entertained the following exchange:

“I say, Holmes,” said I, “that was a damn awful way to treat that wretch, what, what, what.”

“Alimentary, my dear Watson,” said he, “I feared I was about to deposit a truly yummy breakfast on our brand-new Axminster. Hudders would have hit the roof, so I had to take extreme measures.”

“Ah, I see,” said I, “then it wasn’t because of any revulsion you felt for this mangled chap?”

“On the contrary, old boy,” said he, “I have nothing but admiration for the dignified way in which this freak presented himself in such trying circumstances.”

“More importantly,” said I, “are you inclined to help the poor chap out of his predicament?”

There was a long pause as Holmes struggled with his demons, or pondered what to do with Toby, who was once again tugging on his right slipper, a practice Holmes could not abide.

“Watson,” said he, “I fear to solve this case we must descend lower into the murky depths than we’ve ever done before. We must, in the modern vernacular, get our hands dirty. I have no doubt that the fiend Moriarty is behind this, if you get my drift. But no matter, we must get to the bottom of this, for the sake of this bum, don’t you know!”

“Oh, really, Holmes!” said I, “how can you joke at a time like this? This man’s future ablutions depend upon you.”

“Watson,” said he, “I am not a surgeon. I can find the culprit, but I can’t reconfigure his waste disposal facilities. I fear he is twisted for life.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,” said I. “Hudders! Hudders! The man who just left with his trousers around his ankles…”

“The man with the twisted…” said she.

“The very one. Quick. Time is of the essence.”

But Hudders was too late. The man was found in the early hours of the next morning in a ditch by King’s Cross railway station, in a highly distressed state, the victim of excessive wind. On this occasion, Holmes was proven wrong. It was not the dastardly Moriarty behind the perverted prank but none other than the Serial Twister of Twickenham, who obtained many a jolly from rearranging the anatomical parts of 73 victims before LaStrade cornered him outside a public house in Limehouse as he was about to reverse an unsuspecting wenche’s front and back parts. Holmes never forgave himself for allowing his hatred of Moriarty to cloud his deductive powers which prevented him from cracking the case earlier. No more was said of this and Toby was given his own set of slippers to tug and chew to his heart’s content.


Un-furr-toon-ate-lee, some puppies have already copped it.  To prevent more canine demise, get da book RIGHT NOW, pliz.
Arf, arf!

Friday, August 05, 2011


Soaring demand for The Octopiddles has meant that the Peeps are begging, nay, pleading even, with da Buff and Birdy for more Octopiddles.  It would appear that the appetite for Doggy Brill is unquenchable, wot wot wot.  You want Doggy Brill? You got it.  AND don't furr get to tell yer friends bout da book, righty?

Doggy Brill
by Stewart Sumner

Half-munched cakes
and plates of
on the

trees and
on the

your tale
as well
you must

In a
on a
Doggy Brill
arf, arf!

Wednesday, August 03, 2011


Pleased with what he's written, finishing his screenplay at 3 AM, having not slept for two days, Ned clicks on PRINT, but nothing happens. He sees the red LED on the printer blinking. He reaches for the RESET button, but instead knocks over a cup of coffee that spreads rapidly under the paper tray.

Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.

Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.

The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.

"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.

"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.

Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.

Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.

Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.

"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.

Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.

Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."

Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.

Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.

"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.

In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.

Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.

Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.

The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.

Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.

Film at eleven!



A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired

short poetry in brief... all hail the Octopiddles!

Er, buy this book on Kindle or the puppy gets it. REALLY gets it, geddit!